Hunt The Past
Chapter 21 – Hunt the Past
Ava Carter's POV
I didn’t stop to scream. Didn’t break. There was no time. Damon was bleeding out on the living room floor, and Emilia was crying in the corner, eyes wide with trauma.
"Stay with him!" I barked to Emilia, tossing her the nearest blanket. "Keep pressure on the wound."
"But Ava—"
"Just do it!"
I tore through the apartment, searching for the emergency phone Delilah had left us. It was hidden inside the drawer of her now-empty room. I found it. Cold. Black. A burner phone with just two numbers programmed into it.
One said: Jackson Thornhart.
The other: Burn When Done.
My hands trembled as I dialed. The line clicked.
A man's voice answered. "Who is this?"
"Ava. Damon’s hurt. He said to find you. He said you’re his brother."
Silence.
"Where are you?"
"New Avalon. Third district. Coastal apartments. 7C. Please hurry."
Click.
He didn’t say goodbye.
I rushed back to Damon. Emilia was curled beside him, her small hands pressing the blanket over his abdomen.
"It’s going to be okay," I whispered, more to myself than her.
But Damon was pale. His breath shallow.
---
Jackson Thornhart arrived twenty-two minutes later. Dressed in a long black coat, with a scar down one cheek and a glare that could ignite bone, he didn’t knock. He kicked the door in.
Emilia screamed.
He didn’t look at her. He looked at Damon.
"Damn it," he muttered. Then he pulled out a med kit from his coat. It wasn’t just bandages—this was military-grade. He worked fast. Efficient.
I couldn’t stop watching him.
He looked like Damon. Same eyes. Same bone structure. But rougher. Harder. Like he’d already seen the end of the world and survived it.
"He needs a blood transfusion," I said quietly.
Jackson didn’t look up. "I know. I’m his match."
He attached a transfusion line from his arm to Damon’s without a word. Emilia watched in stunned silence. It was the first time she’d stopped crying.
Minutes passed.
Damon stirred. Groaned. Blinked up at Jackson.
"You look like hell," Jackson said.
Damon gave a bloody smile. "Better than being dead."
Then he passed out again.
---
We didn’t stay.
Within the hour, Jackson had arranged for us to move. "If Vanmoor found you once, he’ll find you again."
"Who is he, really?" I asked as we packed.
Jackson looked at me. "The kind of man who builds empires from corpses. And thinks everyone owes him a kingdom."
We drove inland. Through backroads, forests, and past towns that looked like time forgot them.
Jackson owned a safehouse tucked in a valley, behind a fake hunting lodge. Cameras. Tripwires. Weapons hidden in the walls.
"You live like this?" I asked.
"We don’t all get mansions," he said flatly.
Once Damon was stabilized and asleep, Jackson finally sat across from me.
"Start talking," he said. "Everything."
I told him.
About the estate. The mirror. The Watcher. Delilah. The betrayal. The deaths. The fire. The pact.
"Damon didn’t want me involved at first," I added. "He tried to keep me in the dark."
Jackson’s lips twitched. "Sounds like him."
"But he changed. After Emilia. After everything. He fought for us."
Jackson looked down. "He always does. Even when it nearly kills him."
"Why didn’t he tell me about you?"
"Because I broke the rules," Jackson said. "I left the family. Years ago. I saw what our father was doing. The rituals. The sacrifices. I walked away. Damon stayed."
"To protect Emilia?"
He nodded. "I think he always knew she was next."
I swallowed. "What does Vanmoor want now that the supernatural is over?"
Jackson leaned forward. "Land. Leverage. Revenge. Whatever was buried under that estate was just a tool to him. He doesn’t care that it’s gone. He thinks Damon stole it."
"So what now?"
Jackson gave me a chilling smile. "We hunt him before he hunts us."
---
Four Days Later
Damon was finally walking again. Pale, but stubborn.
"You should rest," I told him.
"I’ve rested enough."
Emilia ran into his arms the second he stepped outside his room. She hadn’t let go of him since.
We were gathered in the lodge’s main room when Jackson brought out a folder.
"I hacked one of Vanmoor’s satellites," he said casually.
Damon raised a brow. "You what?"
Jackson ignored him. "He’s building something in the northern sectors. Looks like a bunker. But it’s guarded like a prison."
He tossed photos onto the table. Men with assault rifles. Trucks. Blueprints.
"He wants something from that place. My guess? The last of the Thornhart artifacts."
I flinched. "More power?"
"No. More evidence. Proof of what our father did. Something he can use against us."
"We go in," Damon said.
"It’s suicide," Jackson replied.
"So was staying in that house."
The brothers stared at each other.
Then Jackson nodded. "Then we do it together."
---
Two Nights Later
The infiltration was fast and brutal.
Jackson led the team—me, Damon, and one old contact named Rook, a silent man with a sniper’s gaze.
We slipped in through the drainage system.
It was cold. Wet. My heart pounded like it wanted to escape my chest.
Once inside, the bunker was worse than we imagined.
Cages. Broken equipment. Files labeled with Thornhart names. Some going back centuries.
"This is where he tested them," Damon whispered.
I didn’t want to know who them meant.
Jackson found the server room. "Download everything. Then we torch the place."
But we weren’t alone.
Footsteps. Dozens.
"Ambush," Rook hissed.
The gunfire was instant.
I ducked behind a metal desk. Damon dragged me out of the way just before a bullet ricocheted off the corner.
Jackson fired back. "We’re not making it out the same way."
"Then we go up," Damon shouted.
An emergency ladder led to the surface. But only one could climb at a time.
Jackson shoved me toward it. "Go! Now!"
I hesitated. "What about—"
"We’ll hold them off. Go, Ava!"
I climbed.
Every second, I expected to feel a bullet tear through me.
When I finally emerged, I was in the middle of a forest.
Empty. Cold.
Then an explosion rocked the earth.
Smoke billowed from below.
I screamed. "Damon! Jackson!"
No answer.
---
Two hours later, I sat on the edge of the forest, blood-streaked, shaking.
Then I heard footsteps.
Damon stumbled into view, half-carrying Jackson.
They were alive.
Barely.
I ran to them. Threw my arms around Damon. Then Jackson.
He winced. "Alright. Group hug later. Let’s get the hell out of here."
We drove back in silence.
Vanmoor’s bunker was gone.
But the files weren’t.
And what they revealed would change everything.
Because at the bottom of one file—marked with a Thornhart crest and labeled Project V—was a name I didn’t expect.
My father’s.
And beneath it, a date.
The day he disappeared.